Amon Ra

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I didn’t see him, not at first, I didn’t see him, or I would have turned away. Icy cold snakes coiled in embarrassing silence, they spilled from the pit of my stomach and slithered away in disgust. If I’d seen him first, but I didn’t, I just turned around and he was there – a nauseating, heart-stopping, electric jolt of a man.

My blood blanched when a flicker of recognition played across that vacant smile and impassive gaze and he once more held me thralled in his headlights. Then I remembered who he was, what I’ve seen him do, and I just wanted to laugh. I wasn’t afraid, really, I wasn’t afraid, just mesmerized by the symmetry of his stripes and his cold dead eyes.

I’m thinking Amon Ra was a mean junkie bitch, with a bad case of temper which allowed him to lay on women and children. So I smote the bitch with my cosmic imagery and Rasta radiation. I fixed him in the constellations with my size ten atomic boots and lit a big bad blunt. Amon Ra? Who the fuck is  Amon Ra?